


Zero Curtain

by Frances_J_Irnok



Series: Cracks in the Ice [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Relationship(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-02-27 04:46:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2679689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frances_J_Irnok/pseuds/Frances_J_Irnok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A longer, more romantic chapter in the Cracks in the Ice series.  </p>
<p>Anthea experiences a tragedy which leaves Mycroft to discover just what how much she means to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft Holmes sat rigidly behind his stately desk, feigning interest in the MP who was droning on at great length in front of him.  Mycroft’s face was a well-practiced facade of calm consideration, yet in his mind he’d already calculated eighteen different ways in which he could murder the speaker before him armed only with the pencil resting on the desktop.  Raising a single eyebrow, Mycroft thought to himself, “Nineteen.”  He’d envisioned jamming the pencil into the chatty politician’s eardrum.  Anyone but Mycroft Holmes would have been disturbed at how satisfying that snippet of mental cinema was.  Mycroft just considered it a way to pass the time.  

Bored with his little game, Mycroft snuck a glance in the direction of his office door.  Anthea was due to walk in any moment now, and he told himself that he was only looking forward to her arrival because it would give him an excuse to shuttle the MP out the door.  A man more in touch with his feelings than Mycroft Holmes would have recognized that it was because seeing Anthea was the bright spot in each of his days.

Thirty seconds later Anthea was striding purposefully through the door.  Mycroft didn’t bother to stifle his sigh of relief and stood abruptly, making apologies to the chatty man and guiding him to the door.  

To anyone but Mycroft, Anthea would have looked the picture of a happy, confident woman who was in control.  But Mycroft knew her better.  There was something wrong, he was sure of it.  Her posture was ever so slightly different, her eyeliner was almost imperceptibly smudged, and the tiniest hint of red rimmed her eyes.  Anthea had gone to great lengths to ensure that she looked completely composed, but Mycroft knew that something had happened to upset her.  

Closing the door behind the House of Commons member just slightly too firmly, he turned to Anthea and demanded,   
  
“What’s happened?”    
  
She smiled a bright, if hollow, smile.    
  
“Good morning to you too, Mister Holmes.”  

“Drop the facade.” His concern made him impatient.  “Something is wrong, what has happened?”

Her happy facade came down like a curtain.  Tears threatened to form in her eyes and she said in a wavery voice,   
  
“Personal...matters.  Nothing to concern yourself over, just please, let me do my job.”     
  
He put a hand on her arm.   
“You know, as well as I do,” he said, “that in this business we can have no secrets from one another.  Now what has upset you?”    
  
Knowing better than to test the stubbornness of her employer, Anthea released a ragged sigh and sat down, her eyes cast downward onto his Persian rug.    
  
“My parents,” she began.  

Instantly an image formed in his head.  Will and Caroline Breckenridge.  A podgy,  somewhat serious couple living in the Brittany region of France.  Quite some years ago, when Mycroft chose Anthea as his assistant, it was strongly suggested that she and her original identity fall by the wayside.  Having told her parents she was being given a high-ranking position in MI6, they were relocated to France, having always wanted to retire there.  They were set up with a very modest cottage and some land, compliments of Mycroft, and they were spending their retirement years growing grapes and bottling their homemade wine.  In a nod to the daughter who disappeared, they named their wines “Natalie Day” which was Anthea’s real name before she chose the name Anthea to go with her new identity.  An epithet of the Goddess Hera, the woman who was once Natalie Day Breckenridge decided with no small amount of irony that the name of the Goddess of marriage and children was the name she would use for herself in her career as she chose to eschew every traditional feminine role there was.  

Mr and Mrs Breckenridge had been given a number they could call to leave messages for their daughter from an anonymous prepaid cell phone they’d been provided with.  They checked in every so often, and were always delighted on those rare occasions when their only child had the opportunity to call them back.  

“They’re...they’re gone, Mycroft, they’ve died.”  Her lip trembled and she held back tears.  

A thousand possibilities ran themselves through Mycroft’s brain all at once.  Steadying himself, he asked,   
“Is there any possibility that you’ve been...discovered?”

“Highly unlikely Mycroft, by all accounts it looks like an unfortunate household accident.  Carbon monoxide poisoning.”  

“Take as much time as you need.  I can have the plane ready in an hour’s time, go to France, attend the funeral, do whatever you feel you need to do.”    
  
He was surprised when her face turned cold and hard instead of grateful.  Her words bitter, her voice wavery, she spoke.   
  
“They’re already cold and in the ground, Mycroft.  They died two weeks ago.  I had neglected to check the voicemail account owing to our meetings in Australia.”

There was an awkward pause before she spoke again.   
“If I hadn’t...been away, if it hadn’t been for this job...maybe they would still be here.  Perhaps I could have been there, to take care of their final needs and to mourn them properly.  Now all I have are memories, and regrets.”  She trailed off, feeling helpless.  

“Why did you come to work this morning, Anthea?”  Concern and worry hovered around Mycroft’s eyes.    
She shrugged nonchalantly.    
“What else could I do?  This job is my life, my only life...there’s nothing else.”    
  
Cautious to keep looking like he was nothing but a concerned employer, Mycroft rested a hand gently on her shoulder, as casually as he was able.    
  
“Go home, Natalie.  Go home and mourn them properly.  Take time for yourself.  Just please let me know where you are and when you will return.”  

She stifled a sob when he used her real name, and tears spilled down her cheeks. Taking a moment to compose herself, she said,   
  
“Shall I call in Brian?  He’s the PA who seems to annoy you the least when I’m not available.”  

Feeling very appreciative of her consideration for the job, yet unsure how to show it, Mycroft simply nodded.   
“Thank you.” He said.  It felt hollow, empty, but he didn’t know what else he could say.    
When Anthea stood up to go he had to stop himself from reaching for her.   
“Will you...please, stay in touch, if there is anything I can assist with, you know that it will be done.”    
“I feel badly, leaving you like this,” she mused.   
“You’ve been far more attentive to the position and to my whims than I could have ever asked for.  It is the least that I can do.”  

Anthea nodded once, composed herself, and walked out of the office door.  

 


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, when Mycroft’s alarm woke him, he stifled it with a deeply regretful groan.  Normally he was well-rested and eager to attack each day, but this morning was different.  Yesterday had been difficult for him - not because of the sudden switch in PA, but because he found it hard to concentrate on anything but Anthea.  He wondered at the emotions she was facing, having never been particularly close to his own parents.  He fretted for her, an unusual state indeed for Mycroft, and that robbed him of several hours of sleep.  He was at loose ends, having no desire to work or to do anything that didn’t involve Anthea.  So deeply out of his element, he rolled out of bed and showered, more than a little frustrated that he was not able to get her off of his mind.    
While it was true that there had been times when she had been more than just a personal assistant to him, he had always assumed that it was just a matter of physical need; taking comfort in one another’s bodies and having a sexual release.  The thought that she was somewhere apart from him, that she was in pain and there was nothing he could do, no strings he could pull to fix it, tormented him.  

Finding himself still unable to focus after a shower, Mycroft made some calls, canceled some meetings, and set out on his own before even really stopping to consider what he was doing.  A couple blocks from his London home he hailed a cab, wondering just how long it had been since he’d done so.  He’d grown so accustomed to having a car and driver at his disposal at all times, and while he trusted most of his staff, he didn’t feel comfortable with anyone knowing where he was headed.  Two blocks from Anthea’s flat he stopped the cab and paid, then walked away in the wrong direction and waited before the cab was out of sight before doubling back.  Years of working in a secretive, clandestine business had made such subterfuge second nature to Mycroft.  

He felt foolish and nearly walked away instead of knocking on the door of her flat.  Despite his misgivings, Mycroft took a deep breath and knocked on the door anyway.

Moments later, when Anthea opened the door, he was confronted with an unfamiliar urge.  She was dressed in pyjamas and her hair was disheveled, her face puffy from crying, and despite all this, he had the urge to cross the threshold and scoop her into his arms, soothing her even though he didn’t know how.  

When she saw him, her face grew worried and pale.    
“Oh god, you didn’t fire Brian, did you?”

Squinting momentarily before realizing that Brian was the name of her replacement, he shook his head.    
“No.  I…” His mouth went dry and he swallowed before continuing.   
“I cannot stop thinking of you, and I don’t know why, and I don’t know what that means.”  He let his arms fall helplessly at his sides and he peered at her, still standing in the street.

She considered things for a moment, and invited him in.  He’d never been to her flat before, but she was too numbed by grief to worry at the state of her home.  If he happened to come across some carelessly placed knickers, that was his problem and not hers.  

She led him into her living room and offered up any of a number of seats.  He paused a moment to take in the room, paying attention to the ways in which it met and differed from his expectations of what her home would be like.  It was just as muted and tasteful as he’d imagined in many ways, with certain elements here and there that were riotously colored and out of place.  Looking down beneath his feet he was surprised to find a thick flokati rug in a rather alarming shade of turquoise, resting incongruously atop a very classic cream-colored berber.  Mycroft looked up and met her eyes, desperate to hide a smirk lest she feel he was judging her.    
She grinned indulgently and shrugged.    
“It was an impulse buy.  And I love it.”    
  


“Is there anything I can do?”    
“There’s nothing but time that will help me, really.”   
“Companionship, then?”   
“Has to be better than the last 24 hours alone.  I thought of going someplace, but where?  I’m not ready to go to France just yet and see their place.”    
  
Mycroft nodded, deep in thought, clearly pondering his next move.  He felt lost and adrift, but approached her anyway, sitting on the sofa beside her and pulling her into his arms, praying internally he was doing the right thing.    
She allowed him to pull her close and the last of her stoicism broke when she was fully enveloped in his arms.  She broke down and cried, a cry that was full of guilt and rage, sadness and regret, and all the emotions in between that come up when you know you’ll never again see someone you love.  He gallantly offered her the handkerchief from his breast pocket and noted that he felt better.  He’d done so little, and she had done nothing for him, really, yet just the simple act of being there and holding her, and knowing what she was going through made a great deal of his worry fade away.

Over time her sobs quieted into shivers and sniffles, and before too long she’d gone totally quiet, head buried in Mycroft’s chest while he held her with one arm and used the other to stroke her hair.  A tiny murmur told him that she’d fallen asleep upon him, and he once again found himself feeling like a fish out of water, wondering what if anything he should do.  His lack of sleep the previous night took over and before he could decide on a plan of action, he was leaning back into her plush sofa and drifting off as well.  

A couple of hours later they awoke, stiffly stretching out achy joints.  

**  
  
**

“When is the last time you’ve had a decent meal?”  Mycroft asked, a touch sternly.  

“No idea,” Anthea shrugged.  “But I wouldn’t bother having a look in the kitchen - I rarely keep food round because we are gone so often.  There’s stale Weetabix in the cupboard and an old bottle of HP Sauce in the fridge, and little else.”  

  
She stretched then, lazily, and went out into the hall, bringing back a thick sheaf of takeaway menus.  She plopped them down on the table before him and said, “Take your pick.”  His only response was a raised eyebrow and a bit of a scowl.    
  
“Nonsense,” he nullified with a sniff.

She chewed her lip for a moment before offering, “Well, there’s a Sainsbury’s about 4 blocks away…”

“Right.”  He rose purposefully from the sofa and went into another room, closing the door behind him.  Puzzled, she heard murmurs of him speaking for several minutes before he silenced the call and came back into the living room where she was waiting.    
  
“That’s settled, then.”   
Utterly lost, she asked,   
“What’s settled?”    
Forcing himself to slow his rapid train of thought for her benefit, he replied.   
“Sainsbury’s.  Groceries should be delivered in an hour.”

Looking surprised, she opened her mouth to speak but he cut her off.    
“Honestly Anthea, I do know how to look after myself, it is just that I much prefer to pay someone to do it for me.  And I dare say that something homemade will set you right far faster than a greasy takeaway ever would.”

“You’re...you’re going to cook?”   
  


“No, Heston Blumenthal owes me a favor and is going to pop ‘round and do a quick fry-up.” Mycroft deadpanned sarcastically.

Noting that Anthea still looked a bit lost and overwhelmed, Mycroft opened his arms and asked before stepping closer,   
“May I?”    
She nodded wordlessly and he closed the gap between them, collecting her in a gentle squeeze.

“I want to take care of you,” he said into her ear, barely louder than a whisper.  All she could do was nod, tears moistening her face once more.

“Go have a long hot bath, relax yourself.  I am confident I can find my way around your kitchen if it is half as impeccably organized as you’ve made my office.”

Still feeling tongue-tied and rather like her world had been upended, Anthea pulled away gently and brushed the tears from her face, giving him a grateful look.  She got up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek gently before turning to head for her bathroom, realizing how much she craved the comfort of a long soak.  

 


	3. Chapter 3

After a long soak which left her feeling relaxed and more than a little prune-like, Anthea dressed in her favorite jeans, which were soft from years of washing, and a fitted V-neck T-shirt.  As she was tousling her hair dry with a fluffy bath towel, she heard the banging of pots and pans from across the house and she grew desperately curious to catch a glimpse of Mycroft being domestic.  She’d seen him in the most elegant bespoke tuxedos and suits, seen him always in control and command of a situation (except for, admittedly, the handful of times they’d gone to bed together) and yet she’d never seen him do anything remotely close to cooking or cleaning.  Her amusement at the thought of the most powerful man in Britain in her kitchen cooking for her brought on the first tiny smile since she’d heard of her parents’ passing.  Her feet still bare, she padded down the hallway as stealthily as she could and came to a stop right outside her kitchen door.  

She peered around the doorframe of her oft-underused kitchen.  She’d had it done in a French Country style, in varying shades of cream.  Knickknacks were kept to a minimum but there were romantic, ornate details on each cabinet front, the crown moulding and the skirting boards.  Relatively ordinary white appliances stood on the other side of a cute little kitchen island with a butcher-block top.  While she certainly could have afforded them, Anthea abhorred the trendy stainless steel appliances found in so many other well appointed flats.  

“You may as well come in, just don’t get underfoot.”  Mycroft had taken notice of her there, still hovering just outside the door.    
  
Anthea couldn’t hold back the wide grin which spread across her face when she saw Mycroft, looking so...natural there, chopping vegetables and checking on one boiling pot after another.  He’d done away with his suit jacket, and he’d rolled up his sleeves.  Over his waistcoat and smartly tailored trousers he’d donned a long white apron she’d never seen before.  Come to think of it, did she really own that many pots and pans?  Where did all this come from?  She marvelled as she surveyed the scene.  

She sat down on a stool at the kitchen island, having felt a rush of warmth and sadness come over her all at once.  Despite her deep sense of loss and mourning, she couldn’t help but acknowledge that she found her employer to be devastatingly handsome, and sexier than ever.  She wanted to capture this moment in her mind forever, Mycroft Holmes expertly cooking in her very own kitchen.  She had to fight off the desire to go to him, to come up behind him and wrap her arms around his waist, resting her cheek to his shoulder and just taking in his warmth and his strength. It was then that the sadness came, because she knew that reality would invade, as it always must.  She would eventually bring her mourning period to an end, he would go back to being the stoic iceman in charge, and she his loyal assistant.  It began and ended with the business, it could never be more than that.  Mycroft would never crack his facade - it was what had brought him his power and his success and nothing could stand in the way of his single-minded pursuit of greatness.  

As Anthea mused from her perch across the counter, Mycroft was giving silent thanks for the kitchen island which separated them.  It made it much easier to hide the fact that the sight of her, fresh from the bath, had started to arouse him.  She was wearing a pair of low slung jeans which may as well have been body paint instead of well-worn cotton.  They clung to, and accentuated each and every curve below her waist.  He’d had to avert his eyes owing to how aroused he’d become just by watching her mount the stool she sat upon.  Bringing his eyes upward wasn’t fixing things for him, either.  She was wearing a threadbare t-shirt which promoted some rock band he’d never heard of.  The shirt fit her nearly as well as the jeans did, and the droplets of moisture which fell, from time to time, off her loose, towel-dried hair made the fabric very nearly transparent.  And very obvious that she hadn’t bothered to put on a bra.  He swallowed hard and forced himself to return his attention to his cooking.    
  
“The benefit of having worked so closely to you for so many years,” he said as he worked, “Is that I have memorized your tastes.  I’ve taken the liberty of deciding on a vegetable lasagna and a small green salad paired with an Italian Pinot Noir of which I’m especially fond.”  

Truly floored by his attention to detail and the lengths to which he would go to make her happy, she sighed contentedly.  Her heart was still hollow from pain, shock and loss, but Mycroft was being more of a help than she could ever say.   
  
~o0o~

They talked over their meal, which Anthea was unsurprised to discover was completely perfect.  Mycroft never did anything halfway, and it was natural that if he was going to cook, the end result would be the absolute best.  Anthea reminisced about her years of growing up, sharing family stories and anecdotes.  Mycroft listened intently, sipping his wine and feeling as though he was being given a window into a world he hadn’t known existed.  His own childhood had taught him that caring was not an advantage, and that helped the ease with which he slipped into his persona as the Iceman.  There was one exception to this rule, and that was his brother Sherlock.  The wayward detective and sometimes drug addict gave Mycroft fits of worry, but Mycroft would deny his affection for his younger sibling with his dying breaths.  

They cleared away the dishes in a companionable silence and when everything was put right, Anthea sighed contentedly, one hand on her stomach.    
  
"Thank you, Mycroft, dinner was -- impeccable."    
"Certainly," he responded.  "And now I think that you are due for some more relaxation," he said, putting his hands on her shoulders and guiding her out of the spacious kitchen.  

Somewhat confused, she allowed him to guide her back down the hall and up the stairs to her master bedroom.  The rarely-used television  hanging on the wall had been turned on, and to Anthea's surprise, a stack of brand-new DVDs had been placed on a dressing table nearby.  Mycroft squeezed her shoulders.   
"Choose a film and get comfortable, I'll return very shortly." Her eyebrows raised in surprise, Anthea nodded, and walked over to the stack of movies that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere.   Still shaking her head in disbelief, she couldn't help but chuckle at the selection.  It was a veritable top-ten list of chick flicks and feel good movies...surely Mycroft had ordered someone, somewhere, to bring a stack of movies to make someone feel better.  The thought made her feel more cheery than she'd been in days.  

 


	4. Chapter 4

Anthea chose a disc at random and popped it in the player. She hopped up into her luxurious pillowtop just as Mycroft returned, a tray balanced carefully in his hands. Anthea found herself almost unable to stifle a giggle of sheer disbelief. The roles had truly reversed themselves, and she felt not unlike Alice after a tumble down the rabbit hole. She quickly bit her lip however, unwilling to make Mycroft feel self-conscious about his generous subservience.   
He neatly stepped out of his impeccable shoes and placed the tray upon her bed before joining her. 

"What is all this?" Anthea asked, with raised eyebrows and a smile. 

"Comfort in your time of need, my dear assistant," Mycroft said with a touch of imperiousness. Anthea assumed, and correctly so, that keeping up appearances, at least to a certain extent, helped make Mycroft feel more comfortable with letting his guard down. He lifted a drape that had covered the tray to reveal a sparkling white wine and two portions of a gorgeous-looking tiramisu.   
"You didn't make this yourself, did you?" She asked in disbelief. He bowed his head with the slightest trace of humility and said, "Alas, even I have my limits. This is one of my most favored indulgences, once a year at most. I had it delivered while you were in the bath." 

"You astonish me, Mycroft," said Anthea, with softness in her voice and tears rimming her eyes. He looked down and fussed with the stitching on her duvet for a moment, not knowing what to say. When he finally spoke, he questioned her.   
"Does it diminish the meaning," he asked, "if one had to research what to do in times such as these?" He looked about as unsure as Anthea had ever seen him. Which is to say, not much. But she could see it. She knew him better than she knew herself, in many ways, and she understood just how humbling it was for him to show any sort of weakness or uncertainty at all. She let her fingertips rest atop his hand and said, "Actually, Mycroft, I think that makes it mean more." 

They sat there together, both looking at their touching hands, saying nothing. Mycroft withdrew first, making excuses about starting the film and starting in on the wine before it lost its chill. Anthea smiled at him and swiped a bit of sweet cream from the top of the tiramisu with her fingertip. He swatted her hand as she licked it off and growled with mock seriousness,   
"That's bone china and silver I served you on, the least you could do is not dine as though you were seven."   
Anthea let out peals of laughter at being chastised and while he never would have admitted it, those laughs were like sun-drenched rainshowers after a drought. He relaxed into himself a bit more, relieved that he could make her laugh, even if it was at his expense.

The rest of the evening sped by, fueled by several bottles of brilliant wine, a decadent dessert and films that were completely devoid of quality or character. 

At some point during the night, Anthea must have fallen asleep, although she didn't remember it. She'd been neatly tucked in under her covers, still fully dressed. For the briefest of moments she was afraid that Mycroft had left, but she was reassured when she felt his weight on the bed next to her. 

She looked him up and down. He’d taken up part of her bed yet kept a respectful distance. Between the wine and the sugar she’d gotten tipsy and giggly but he’d not made a single move to touch her. He could have had her, easily, after the comfort and the dinner, the movies and the companionship. But instead he’d taken a place beside her, once he’d tucked her into the bed, sleeping chastely wearing his button-front shirt, socks and trousers.   
He awoke under her gaze and looked...younger, happier...thawed. Still not completely awake, not yet frozen behind his icy facade, he gave her an affectionate look and a soft grin. 

“Good morning...how are you?” Mycroft asked, concern shadowing his face.  
“Better than yesterday,” she answered as honestly as she knew how. “It still hurts, it’s still...surreal. I know it won’t feel totally real until I go to France, and maybe not even then, but...your company has helped.” She gave him a tiny smile and touched his arm, reaffirming her gratefulness.   
"I'm glad you stayed," Anthea said, voice barely above a whisper.  
"I can't imagine being anywhere else," Mycroft responded with a matter-of-fact shrug.   
"Come under here with me."  
Mycroft questioned her invitation silently but trusted she was genuine as she lifted the covers and shifted toward the center of the bed. 

He welcomed her invitation and rolled over on top of her. He stroked her hair with his palm before reaching down to plant kisses on the freckles across her nose and cheeks. She blushed at his affection and lazily brought her arms up to caress his back. When his lips met hers, she found herself surprised at the emotion she could feel radiating through his kisses. Mycroft had always been a masterful kisser, but those kisses had always been passion-filled, possessive and bordering on rough. These kisses were still hot and needy, yet they held a quality of gentleness and reverence she’d never felt from him before, making her feel as though she were melting into his body even though they hadn’t removed a stitch of clothing. His large, masculine hands gently touched and teased every inch of her clothed body, lingering on her in ways they’d never done before. 

Mycroft’s walls were totally down and he was allowing himself to feel, and to fall...and that is indeed what it felt like to him, kissing Anthea in her bed, gently massaging her flesh and hearing her whimper into him. It was as though he were in free-fall, in the moments after jumping from a plane yet before pulling the parachute cord: it was a complete zen-like calm and completely terrifying all at the same time. More than anything it was an overwhelming sense of rightness. 

Anthea snuck her hands around to his front as they kissed and she began to unbutton the front of his shirt. At the first touch of her hand to his bare skin his eyes flew open wide and he couldn’t help but sigh in pleasure. 

His eyes met hers, so blue, so open, and before he could stop himself words began to tumble out.   
“Anthea-Natalie, I lo--”   
Stopping in mid-sentence, he flushed and collected himself before speaking again.  
“I imagine we should get more comfortable?” The look in her eyes told him she knew he’d changed the subject, but she let it go, simply smiling and nodding. They got up from the bed and undressed in a somewhat awkward silence, neither feeling able to enunciate the feelings they were having inside. 

They lay side by side after their lovemaking, Sides just barely touching. They laid in the silence for a while, and after a time, Anthea finally spoke. 

"I think I'm ready...to go to France, that is." 

Silently, Mycroft reached over and grasped her hand in his. 

"I mean, I'm not really ready," she mused, "But it's what must be done." She felt a squeeze of her hand. 

"Then I'll call and have the plane waiting," Mycroft told her, still lying on his back, both of them feeling more comfortable not facing one another, not facing the feelings that were churning underneath the surface. 

"I'm ok flying commercial, you know...much as I appreciate your generosity, there's no need to --"   
He interrupted her.   
"I'm not flying commercial," he said definitively. 

"You?" Anthea understood what he meant, but she wasn't quite ready to accept the deeper meaning beneath it. 

"Of course," his voice was soft. "I'm not prepared to let you do this alone." 

The silence settled back over them again and they lay there, hand in hand. Finally, she squeezed his hand in response and he knew that she accepted his offer.


	5. Chapter 5

By that afternoon, they were touching down on a small runway somewhere in Brittany.  As Mycroft gallantly helped her out of her seat and gently guided her down the steps of their private plane, Anthea was thankful for his silent strength.  He steered her toward a waiting car, which taxied them to a helipad on the other side of the airport.  Anthea regarded Mycroft questioningly, and he responded.     
  
"An hour's journey by car will take us 15 minutes by helicopter.  It's all arranged, there will be a car waiting to take us the rest of the way."  Anthea was nothing if not overwhelmed, and tears threatened to spill over in her eyes.  She gave his hand a good hard squeeze and curved her body to fit next to his in the seat of the helicopter.  She stayed like that, nestled in the crook of his arm, the whole way there.     
  
True to his word, a low-slung black car was waiting for them when they touched down in what looked to be a wheat field that had gone fallow.  Within minutes they were speeding down the road with Mycroft behind the wheel, having punched the coordinates of Anthea's parents' vineyard into the satnav.     
  
The drive, through rolling fields and inviting groves, would've been beautiful had either of them been in a mood for scenery.  Mycroft exuded a calm, cool exterior but inside he was a mass of doubt.  How could he console Anthea as she grieved the loss of her parents when he himself could scarcely stand to think about his own?  How could he give her emotional support when he'd made a career of stifling his own feelings?  

  
Anthea's own mind flitted from one worry to another - what would be the state of her parents' home?  Why couldn't she have picked up the phone more often?  Did they resent her for being so distant?  Had they been proud of her?  Tears pricked at her eyes though she was determined not to let herself sob.     
  
They arrived at the unassuming stone marker that signaled the boundary of the vineyard, and turned down the long gravel drive.  Row after row of grapevine trellises seemed to welcome them onto the property like silent sentries, finally giving way to a modest clearing. Centered in the clearing stood the stone and slate cottage where Anthea's parents lived out their final years.   
  
Their luxury car purred to a stop and Anthea unbuckled herself, leaping out the door before Mycroft could turn off the engine.  He remained in his seat, waiting and watching as she turned in a small circle, taking in all of the atmosphere around her.  She took a deep breath and ran both hands through her hair before turning back to look at him and gently motioning for him to join her.  Mycroft steeled himself and exited the car, feeling completely out of his element yet determined to comfort her in any way she needed.     
  
He put a hand in hers and asked softly, "Are you ready to go in?"  Despite the summery sun beating down upon them, Anthea shivered just a little, held on tightly to Mycroft's arm, and they proceeded inside.     
  
The cottage door was unlocked, a custom to which Mycroft objected, but he bit his tongue.  Just inside the front door, they found themselves in an open, welcoming room with a stone floor and exposed beams in the ceiling above.  To the right was the kitchen, divided from the dining area with a long bar counter. To the left of that was a cozy sitting area: spacious yet compact all at the same time, the whole expanse radiated a rustic, welcoming charm.     
  
Anthea sniffled.  "It almost doesn't feel right, being here without them," she said softly.  All Mycroft could do was squeeze her shoulders in response, not knowing what he could possibly say.  She pressed his hand tightly in hers then separated from his grip, drifting from room to room and taking in the details.  She'd made her way to the sitting room when she plucked an envelope from a side table and began to examine it.     
  
"It's a letter," Anthea declared, turning to face Mycroft.  "And it's addressed to Natalie."  Mycroft was rattled, but he tried not to show it.  He crossed the room in three strides and rested his palms on her shoulders, looking on as Anthea opened the letter and read:  

 

_ Dear Natalie,  _ __   
_ My name is Thierry: I manage this property as long as your parents own it.  I write you this letter because I know one day you return.  William and Caroline were good people. They loved you so deeply.  This is how I know you will return.  I took care of their final needs and maintained the property. If it be possible, meet me in my home or in the vineyard.  If security does not allow, please leave word for me.  My apologies for bad English.  _ __   
_ Merci,  _ __   
_ Thierry.   _ __   
__   
They let out a synchronized sigh of relief.  Without having to say a word, they'd both known that the other was concerned that Anthea's former identity had somehow been compromised.     
  
"He seems harmless, if grammatically challenged," Mycroft mused.     
"Not all of us can learn a language backwards and forwards in a day's time, you know," Anthea teased with a nudge.     
He smiled, grateful that she felt able to even gently tease.  Giving her shoulders a tiny squeeze, he asked, "Are you feeling up for visiting this Thierry?"     
  
"Give me a little while, I'd like to freshen up and get my bearings first.  Truth be told, I'd love to put it off for another day, but I'd hate to think of what might happen if he found an unfamiliar car waiting outside his deceased employer's residence."     
  
Anthea choked ever so slightly at the word 'deceased,' just enough for Mycroft to notice.  He turned her around gently and folded her into his arms, resting his chin atop her head.     
  
"My brave, strong one," he murmured, rubbing her back up and down.  She sniffed and snuffled into his suit coat for a minute or two before regaining her composure.     
  
"Thank you, again," she told him as she stepped away from his embrace and wiped her eyes.  

  
She shut herself into the bathroom for a moment, breathing in the peacefulness and the privacy and wondering just what she was supposed to do with herself next.  Mycroft went to wait in the sitting room but stopped in his tracks when something glinting in the light caught his eye.  He stopped in a doorframe, peering into a very modest, almost stark bedroom.  There were two matching mid century nightstands flanking the bed and the gleam that had caught his eye rested there.  He stepped silently into the room, still feeling for all intents and purposes as an intruder, even though he knew that rationally the owners of this bedroom would never be coming back again and there was no one to rebuff his intrusion.  At the base of the smooth, unfussy modernist lamp which rested on each nightstand was a ring.  Mycroft picked one up and examined it.     
Made of sterling silver, the ring was heavily scarred from ages of use.  He turned the heavy, solid band in his hand and realized that certainly, this must have been her father's wedding band.  An examination of the matching nightstand told him his intuition was right, for there rested a matching band.  Smaller, but no less solid nor less deeply worn.  Some caring soul had removed their wedding bands and placed them here on these tables as a sign of respect, perhaps, or maybe as a gift to the next of kin.  Whatever the reason, there was no doubt now what the items were.  He heard the click of the bathroom light being turned off and before he could think of what he was doing, Mycroft pocketed both rings and stepped out of her parents' former bedroom and out to meet her in the hall.  


End file.
